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to sort my shit out, but a small motion behind us grabs our attention. Kerris stands there, eyes wide, gripping her phone.
    “Speaking of your perfect wife,” I snap, rolling my eyes. “Here she is now.”
    Kerris doesn’t know what to make of me. A few minutes ago I was complimenting her taste in jewelry and acting the closest I’ve ever come to being nice to her. Now the bitch is back. My head is spinning, too, honey.
    “Um, the sitter just called.” Kerris trains her eyes on Walsh, ignoring me. “The girls have a fever.”
    Walsh squeezes the bridge of his nose, something I’ve seen Uncle Martin do a thousand times. He palms his neck, head bent toward the floor, and looks up at me.
    “I have to go.” He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder, a gesture I don’t deserve after the vitriol I just spewed at him. “We still need to talk about this. If your father knew—”
    “Don’t bother.” I jerk back from his hand and press my shoulders into the wall. “I’m not changing my mind.”
    Kerris hovers just down the hall, wearing the anxiety for her little girls between her eyebrows and around her tightened lips.
    “Go to your family, Walsh. I’ll be fine.”
    He hesitates, but after a few seconds moves down the hall and grabs Kerris’s hand. He kisses her fingers, wrapped around his, like he can’t help it. Like when he’s that close to her, he can’t resist expressing how much he loves her. It is salt in a wound that shouldn’t still hurt. I don’t love Walsh anymore, if I ever really did. It’s so hard to sort out the imaginations of our youth from what’s real. When we’re young, we feel things so deeply, how could it not be real? How could it not be right? But as I look at them, hands twined, walking so close even light doesn’t intrude, I know what right looks like.
    “Hey, Walsh,” I call out against my better judgment.
    He stops and looks back at me. So does she.
    “I’m…I’m sorry.”
    Walsh grins, that rakish slash across his handsome face that has grabbed more than one heart. That once held mine.
    “You know I know that.” He keeps walking, but waves over his head at me. “You want me to make your excuses so you don’t have to go back?”
    “Yeah, send Rip here and we’ll leave through the back.”
    I don’t have the energy to wriggle on a hook for that prize-size fish Trevor Bishop. He’s the kind of man who requires all your wits, and mine are scattered all around me. As handsome as he is, as intrigued as I am—I can’t tonight. Daddy can catch his own damn fish.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Trevor
    H arold and I have endured ceremonies in developing nations, on other continents, that lasted days. Interminable rites of passage. Festivals we thought would never end, but none as intolerable as my time at this table with Ernest Baston and Kyle Manchester. Maybe I’m hasty in saying this, but I don’t think so. They might quite possibly be two of the biggest assholes I’ve ever encountered, and considering the corrupt leaders in the nations where we do business, that’s saying something.
    I stopped following Kyle’s diatribe on redistricting about ten minutes ago. I’m considering fake choking, thinking the Heimlich maneuver would break this shit up nicely, when Walsh and Kerris return to the table. No Sofie in sight. I look over Walsh’s shoulder to make sure. A woman who stands nearly six feet tall barefoot would be hard to overlook, especially one who looks like Sofie, but I check anyway.
    “We need to go. The girls have a fever.” Walsh frowns while Kerris grabs her bag from the table. “Where’s Rip?”
    “He saw an old college teammate,” I answer, grateful my vocal chords didn’t atrophy during Kyle’s filibuster. “Said he’d be back in a few. Everything okay?”
    Walsh’s frown deepens, his eyes narrowing when they connect with Kyle Manchester’s. Gotta give it to him, Kyle gives him glare for glare. What’s up with these two? Seems to be more than the typical